‘This isn’t a joke, Ruan.’
He moves further away from the door, lowering his voice. ‘What is it about him anyway? Why d’you look so frightened?’
I breathe in deeply through my nose, realising how ridiculous I must look. I shake my head, then usher Ruan out of the room, and prepare to follow in his footsteps. I’m probably just being stupid and it isn’t you anyway. The only true connection I have is that he is from Warwickshire. That’s not a lot to go on. He’s referred under a different name, but that doesn’t mean anything; I wouldn’t put a name change past you. I’ve changed Jack’s surname, after all; from Austin to Sands, before we moved to Cornwall. You’re also a pathological liar, so anything we’ve already been told doesn’t mean anything. Ruan’s description fits you well, but then it would also be appropriate for many other men. And, given it’s Ruan’s description, he could actually be small and blond. Then, a quiet, softly spoken voice – no, you had a commanding, sardonic voice. But then, you could be, it could be, whatever you wanted it to be, in any given situation.
Counting to three, I step out from the security of my room, forcing the fixed, unnatural beginnings of a smile, into the open reception. The man has already stood up and made his way over to the far side. He stands nonchalantly, hands in pockets, looking out onto the street. Is this because I’ve annoyed him, keeping him waiting? Or is it because he doesn’t want me to know who it is just yet? He doesn’t want me to see, recognise his face? He’s planned this moment, wants to be in total control at the point he decides to reveal himself. He will only turn to face me when the instant is right for him. For you. I take in his physique, his stance; a perfect shadow of you stands before me. A gush of sickness upsurges from my roiling stomach as I hear the words fall inelegantly from my anaesthetised lips.
‘William?’ I request of his back. I secretly will him not to turn around. Why am I playing along with your game, calling you William? I imagine you simpering at the window. I urge him to answer me whilst still facing the outside world. My legs begin to subtly quiver; someone has removed the muscles. My pen slips from my sweaty, unsophisticated hand. It drops, but I dare not move to pick it up.
Ever so steadily, he coils towards me. At full twist his dark eyes seek immediate contact. A look of knowing satiates them. Blood drains from my limp body. I notice how his shoulders capitulate. An impression grabs me.
He has found who he is looking for.
Chapter Nineteen
Before
It seemed often I would hear people remark on how quickly time passes when having fun. My time passed painfully slowly, watching and learning. I stopped walking your path; I just didn’t tell you. I wasn’t ready for you to know. All I could do was safeguard the happiness of Jack, riding the waves of loneliness and heartache. All the time, the lies were stacking up. I couldn’t afford to trip over them. Why did I still not leave? It was compulsory I played the game, or you’d always be with me. A creepy, climbing plant, strangling its support system, tightening its grip, obscured, unnoticed. All the time, sucking away at vital nutrients. No, I needed to be cleverer than you.
*
‘Oh. My. God. A chauffeur-driven trip to Wimbledon. Centre Court tickets. A three-course lunch, wow. How amazing! I’m so jealous!’ She assumed much, while juggling the arms of an octopus into his coat at the end of Jack’s music group. She asked, so I told her; I wished I hadn’t. She was nice, kind and funny, but I kept her at the required distance, our conversation couldn’t go any further than surface-level banter.
I tackled Jack to the ground, still wriggling, wedging his shoes onto chubby feet. ‘Hmm, I suppose.’ I could understand where she was coming from; I wanted to be excited. The thought saddened me. She thought she knew me, but she didn’t.
‘Well, don’t sound so happy about it, will you? Listen, I’m more than happy to go in your place, you know. Just give me the nod,’ she jested.
If only she knew. But how could she? I needed to make connections, join the obligatory groups for Jack’s sake. He was two years old, needed to be amongst other children. I, too, needed to be around other adults, other females. But it was tangibly painful. Gradually, I developed methods for hiding the truth. Not just from others but myself too. It was my only way to cope, a desperate attempt at normality. I daren’t allow anyone to get too close; for their protection and mine. Expert in dodging questions, ignoring invites, imaginative excuses. Friendships were amputated anything beyond the acquaintance stage.
From the outside we looked like the ideal family unit. So much so, sometimes I’d catch myself querying, was it me who was the problem? Did I overreact? Were you correct in suggesting I was mentally sick? Could it be a case for postnatal depression? But then, why did the other lives, the ones I watched and heard about, look so normal and simple? Why did I crave so much, for these lives? Ironically, others often articulated their envy of our life; it was purely a conceptual envy. They didn’t know of the life, the other side of the front door.
It was irrelevant how they saw us; they only had an obscured pinhole view. By then, I’d pushed myself so far into the corner, I couldn’t figure out a feasible escape route. It was harsh, cold and isolated. The veiling of my life and constant pretending so brilliantly disguised the facts and hid the evidence. So much so, a cry for help would appear fraudulent. It wasn’t that I didn’t consider leaving. I thought about it every day. But it was hopelessly complicated. Alone in the midst of night with a two-year-old child, a self-esteem buried somewhere under the rubble; it felt unbearably impossible. Day by day, week by week, and month by month, increasingly cut off. Jack was my only living reason to keep my flame alight, but also the reason I needed to be more than sure of my decisions, my timing.
*
You stood upright and tall, checking your reflection in the full-length mirror on the galleried landing. An apparent piece of fluff on the arm of your dark suit catching your attention. How could you care about such things? In the beginning, I found it quite sweet, but these ways soon became peculiar and abhorrent. I turned away, conscious of my lack of time to finish getting myself ready. I fingered the soft silk of my cornflour blue 1950s-style dress. You’d reactivated my credit card, so I could choose a suitably expensive dress for the occasion. Your corporate occasion. I hadn’t realised my cards were cancelled in the first place, until an incredibly embarrassing moment at the children’s farm with other mums. They’d had to pay for me whilst I’d fumbled for feasible excuses.
‘Don’t worry about it, it happens to me all the time. The next one’s on you.’ I bet it doesn’t happen to you, I’d thought. Not like this. Not as a punishment.
Kind words to soothe my blushing cheeks. How could you have done this? To teach me what exactly? There was always a lesson to be learned in all these actions. I’d called you as soon as I’d managed to free myself from the group; maybe there had been a genuine problem with our account. You always took charge of the finances; I was not to be trusted.
‘Gregg, I’m at the farm, my card’s just been declined?’
I’d felt the smirk before the words had come. ‘Yes. It will have been.’ I’d imagined you sitting, self-preening, satisfied. I’d wished I hadn’t called.
‘Why?’
‘You know why, Eve.’
‘No, I don’t!’
‘The matter of the missing supermarket receipt. From your last statement?’
I’d bitten my tongue. Visualising wiping the smug expression from your face. ‘Why didn’t you at least tell me you’d cancelled them?’
Your voice had been muffled. ‘Thank you, Patricia. I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ you’d oozed to some poor fool in your office. Her slinking away with your compliments. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes… now, if I had warned you, how would that have taught you a lesson, Eve?’
I’d been able to feel my cheeks reddening with blood pressure. ‘You’ve taken all the cash from my purse too!’
‘Yes. Actually, no, that’s not quite true, I
left you enough change for parking. Perhaps next time you’ll make sure you keep all your receipts. Everything has consequences, Eve, everything.’
I didn’t spend a fortune on a dress; what was the point? Just another way of dressing up the lies. But I did want to make an effort; not for you but because I desperately needed to feel nice. I was off to Wimbledon for the first time. I slipped my feet into bronze-coloured high-heeled strappy sandals, admiring them from each angle. So pretty. I felt your eyes on me, saw you smirking before walking away, shaking your head. Pulling myself up, I blushed with the thought of being girly and silly. Clumsy and awkward was how I felt next. I observed my reflection in the mirror. Even my make-up, especially my signature coral-red lipstick, now appeared puerile. Reaching for a tissue, I dabbed at my mouth to make it less obvious. I tucked my shoulder-length ashen strands behind my ear, exposing diamond studs, a present from my parents. You didn’t like them. But they allowed me a surreptitious closeness to my memories of warmth and love. I loosened my hair again, to cover them up.
I could hear you downstairs, parading up and down the oak floors whilst charming our babysitter. A perfect gentleman. You knew how to make people feel good about themselves. Jack was giggling away, chatting in an animated, jumbled-up, nonsensical manner. He was happy; that was enough for now. I imprisoned my finger with my wedding and engagement rings. I only ever wore them in public. They made me feel bound and suffocated. I always took them off as soon as I walked back through the door. You never noticed, or at least you didn’t comment on it. Or perhaps you just didn’t care.
A few minutes later we were collected from our over-elaborate statement gates by a black funeral-like car. Thankfully, David and Sue, a senior partner at your company and his wife, were already in the car, so some animated conversation with good-humoured banter covered for us. I knew the couple reasonably well from the numerous corporate events, enough to relax a little. Still, the feeling of it all rolling out before me, around me, as I watched life go by out of the window; such a façade, all of it. How long could I keep it up for, fake smiles, forged banter? Was I becoming as good an actor as you? I was aware of a muffled you, floating over my semi-conscious state; talking about me, us, in a vivacious manner. As if you thought of me in a positive light, as an intellectual equal. My skin was beginning to crawl.
Sitting back against the leather seats, I listened as you enlightened them how I was due to return to the hospital soon, to work within the brain-rehabilitation clinics. So this was what it must feel like to have true appreciation from your husband; for a moment, I tried to embrace it as if it were real. Fascinated at your eagerness to express your appreciation of my work, your compassion for the unfortunate families and loved ones. I could feel myself slipping between the two worlds again, a twisted form of reality. Was I on the edge of psychosis? I caught your dishonest eye before returning to the world outside the window. Only yesterday you loomed over me, mocked me for even considering returning to work.
‘What?’
‘I’m thinking of returning to the hospital. Not full time, a few hours each week. They called me last week, asked me to consider it. So, I’ve given it a lot of—’
‘Huh. Really? You seriously believe it’s a sensible move, given your state of mind at the moment? You in a position of helping others?’ You guffawed. ‘I’ve heard it all now. No wonder so many people die in our hospitals. Bloody public sector.’
‘Actually—’
‘Have you told them?’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I think you’ll find they’ve only asked you because they’re assuming you’re as you used to be.’ You snorted. ‘They have no idea.’ You swaggered back over to your desk, flipping your Apple screen into action. ‘Why you’d even want to is beyond me. Especially on your salary.’
Your mobile trilled, cutting through the air. ‘Hold a minute, will you?’ you said to the caller.
‘What about Jack?’ you said to your Apple screen. ‘Have you for one minute considered him in all this babble? You are, then, able to live with yourself, knowing full well you’ll be sacrificing his needs for your own selfish ones? Grow up, for Christ’s sake. You’ve responsibilities. Poor Jack, whatever did he do to deserve a mother like you? Seriously, you are bloody unbelievable.’ You returned to your call.
It was on the tip of my tongue to remind you how you had refused to have any relationship with your own mother for the last three years. But learned self-control took a grip, so as not to cut off my nose to spite my face. I needed to win this one; I turned and walked away. The seed was sown for the time being. I felt your eyes follow me out of the room. Your mobile ringing served me well. You wanted a fight; I didn’t want to play anymore. Things were changing. You knew it, didn’t you? You knew you needed to up your game in order to renegotiate some respect. Power and control. I shuddered at the thought of what might come next, but I also knew it was essential.
How could anyone switch so transiently from black to white to now articulate these words tripping from your mouth? I was caught between not allowing myself to be surprised by such turncoat behaviours, and ensuring I kept them at arm’s length. Otherwise they would become my norm too. How would I escape then? The daily disgust and astonishment kept me within the realms of lucidity. I lived the lie, but I knew it was a lie. I knew it was so wrong in every conceivable way. I wouldn’t ever let go of that. I was brought back into the moment by you kicking my foot, realising I’d absconded from the conversation.
‘Heavens, Eve, this is wonderful. Your work must be unbelievably recompensing. So worthwhile. I’m not sure how you cope with the heartache. I honestly don’t think I could.’ Sue looked from you to me.
For a passing moment, I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to my home life, or the hospital; either way my response was apt. I smiled at her earnest face. ‘It’s hard at times; I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I try and focus on what I can do, rather than what I can’t do.’ Your eyes bore through me, sending me a warning. ‘We see some really sad cases; you wouldn’t be human if they didn’t touch you. But, I’ve come to realise, there’s always hope for change. Even when it seems truly hopeless. Good things can come from bad. I’ve seen it happen, lots of times.’
I wanted to add to this: Look at Jack, for example, I’d never be without him. You continued to eyeball me, trying to decipher any hidden meaning in what I’d said. Anything you would be obligated to deal with later, when we were alone. Your dark eyes piercing mine. Then you smiled that smile at me. ‘All very good, Eve, my eternal optimist. I’m afraid hope is a little too ambiguous for me. I need concrete facts. Charming, though. Really it is. I’ve always loved that about you. Always hanging onto something or other.’
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? Good job some people keep hope, Gregg,’ Sue added, smiling at me.
You tapped on my leg as you smiled back at her. Sending me a message. Making me squirm at your touch. Please, God. I sat, silently fuming, feeling as small as any adult possibly could. How come no one ever saw through your performances? So cringeworthy and insincere. Was it a case of them not wanting to see? Ignoring all the signs, because it was easier to do so. Wasn’t this human nature? To avoid unnecessary hardship and confrontation, especially if they had nothing to gain by it. Or was I becoming increasingly cynical of the world and its people?
After a couple of hours and plenty of traffic, we eventually arrived. Only ever having seen Wimbledon on the TV screen before, I couldn’t help but feel a slight stir of disappointment. In my mind’s eye, I’d imagined it somewhere much grander. I hadn’t realised we were approaching the entrance on just another suburban residential street. Pleasant, but fit for any ordinary sports club. Within the grounds, and the streams of people, it vaguely reminded me of a lavish village fete; just busier. How the imagination is so proficient in plugging the cavities with what it desires or needs to see. We were immediately guided by David to the marquee-adjoined restaurant, where we would mingle and be served lunch, ahe
ad of the Centre Court excitement.
I sneaked off to call home and check on Jack, before rejoining the swarm for polite conversation. I hovered from foot to foot, aware of an edgy feeling, my confidence threatening to bail. I didn’t recognise myself any more. What had I possibly to talk about? Eventually, we were shown to a white-tableclothed circular tables adorned with unnaturally fixed arrangements of white lilies. I hoped this wasn’t a bad omen. The embarrassing decision of who should sit where, while you scanned the room for the most influential dinner-party partner, was thankfully addressed: set named places awaited us. The only downside being I’d been dumped next to you. The alcohol would be flowing in abundance. We had a chauffeur; you would be under the influence, amplifying the volume levels before long. At least I wouldn’t be travelling back with you alone, in your inebriated body and mindless state.
I was starving and keen to satisfy the low-sugar shaky feeling, so consumed the minuscule smoked salmon starter with speed. Reaching for the basket of bread as you scowled briefly, inconspicuously. I made polite conversation with my left-side companion as my second course arrived. You leant over me, continuing conversation across the table, then glanced up to the hovering waiter holding a bottle of ruby wine. ‘No more here. Not for my wife, thank you,’ you added, covering my wine glass just in time to prevent it from being topped up. The waiter seemed slightly taken aback, as I probably did too. He glanced nervously between us.
‘Oh, so sorry. Would she prefer white instead? I’ll fetch another glass?’ he asked you, obviously thinking I didn’t have a tongue, or a mind. Strangely, I too found myself looking at you to hear your response.
‘No. No, I mean, no more wine. Of either kind. Thank you.’ You turned away from the poor lad, who offered me a consoling half-smile. You continued conversation with your pompous-seeming neighbour. An influential figure, I was later informed.
Her Greatest Mistake Page 14